The Lion, the Wizard, and the Dragon
by arc.black
Summary: Nausea hit him in the stomach when he realised that it two humans, one bleeding severely, the other desperately holding on.His heart turned over when he saw the unhurt one draw a wand. [post HPB HPDM slash. In response to Tsurai no Shi's challenge]
1. Godric's Hollow

A/N: this is in response to Tsurai no Shi's "Through Masks and Mists challenge. I am attempting to follow all the rules, the one that I will probably end up breaking is the one where Harry has to be friends with one of them – he hated both in sixth year, and this is directly after. He's just been to Bill and Fleur's wedding, and is now going to Godric's Hollow.

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Harry trudged up the hill. It was rocky, and gravel slid under his feet as he walked. Pulling his jacket closer around him, he stopped and squinted at the wooden sign ahead.

"Godric's Hollow, fifty meters from here…" he murmured to himself.

The wind whispered things to the olive trees that Harry would never hear. He walked on.

He reached the top of thee hill. It was a shallower descent, leading to a small village. To the east lay a wood, to the west a meadow, to the north a lake, and to the south, the wretched hill upon which he was standing. Hoping he would never have to make that climb again, Harry set off at a brisk pace through the village.

There were so many different sounds and smells. Someone was having sausages for lunch. A sparrow chirruped in the trees. The town was bigger than it looked – Harry counted three stores and over sixty houses. At long last, he reached the lake.

What should he do from here? He had no lodgings, for the Potter's home had been destroyed in Voldemort's attack. Could he possibly buy a house? He had no money; at least none that muggles would understand. And so how would he buy food? How would he pay for water? How…? What..? Why…?

Why hadn't he thought all this through before?

Sighing, he glanced wistfully at a little house near the meadow. It looked about two stories high, and was made of wood, but had brick around the corners. It was behind a little hill of its own.

Today was Friday. Ron and Hermione were due Monday week after next. Surely he could figure everything out by then?

Harry thus commenced house hunting. It had to be within ten kilometers of Godric's Hollow, it had to have at least two bedrooms, and a house preferably, not a flat. It was amazing how difficult a living space with his criteria was to find. As soon as he'd found the house, he would go the Gringotts, make a transfer, and so, be able to live quite comfortably.

After much searching, he found it. It was a house between the lake and the wood. It was set on a high, grassy slope, and the sun rose behind it and set in front. Pretty place. Perhaps he could keep it as a summerhouse.

At any rate, he bought it, and an excruciating process that turned out to be. He needed to be of legal age in muggle Britain, which he wasn't. It required much traveling to the Dursley's on his part, and finally, Petunia Evans Dursley bought it, but when her darling nephew Harry James Potter came of age, he would inherit it.

Lovely. So it was Monday morning, the week after next, and Harry was all set. He would go furniture shopping with Ron and Hermione; he had warned them to bring camp beds. The kettle was on the stove; the mugs were on the counter. The living room was furnished only with a table and three chairs. Otherwise, it was bare wooden floor all through the house, no beds, nothing. There was a cup, toothpaste and toothbrush in the bathroom, and a towel, but that was all.

Sitting on one of the chairs, Harry sipped coffee and concentrated on his copy of "Magic of the Orient." Quite an interesting book, really.

So there, Snape, he thought. Kappas are Japanese.


	2. Grave Arrivals

As Harry's thoughts brushed on the topic of Snape, he was instantly filled with hatred. He physically felt the blackness coursing through his veins and slither behind his eyes, curled to strike.

It was pathetic, really. Harry told himself repeatedly that it was pathetic. To try prove that everything Snape had ever done and said was wrong was pointless and vindictive. Childish.

But he did it anyway. These little bits of bitterness kept him grounded; they reminded him was he was to do.

It was now nine o'clock. Feeling numbness travel up his legs, Harry decided to take a walk around the village.

The air was heavy and humid, the side effects of living so close to a lake. The sun seemed to want to make them all barbecue by evening, and breeze hinted nowhere.

Stepping briskly outside, Harry inhaled the scents again. They changed every day – today smelled of grass. Harry remembered with a smile that Hermione loved freshly mown grass.

They were due to arrive in an hour – he could take a look at his parents' grave by then. He walked up to a boy that was mowing his lawn as quickly as possible; Harry remembered doing the exact same thing. "Um, hello," he said awkwardly.

"Hey," said the boy, pausing in his work. "I'm Jack. Who're you?" the boy had dark hair and paler skin than Harry thought possible in the heat.

His true name was halfway to his mouth before he remembered. Even this young boy, probably no older than himself, could be a Death Eater spy. "Jonathan Artois."

"New?"

"Yeah. I was wondering if you could tell me if there's a graveyard near here."

"Grave yard?"

Harry only noticed how strange it sounded when it was out of his mouth. "Well," he tried to amend. "See, I'm looking for some family members graves, and…"

Jack leaned on the mower. "The grave yard's that way." He pointed to where the south hill and forest met. "There are a few graves scattered round the outskirts, though."

"Thanks." Harry flashed him a smile. The boy blushed and muttered a reply.

And Harry set off walking. He was around three quarters of the way when he came upon a clearing.

It was a quiet grove, with dark firs surrounding. In the centre there was a small headstone covered with vines and blended in the undergrowth of flowers and weeds.

Walking cautiously up to it, Harry brushed away the vine with trembling fingers, half hoping for what he was going to see, and half dreading it.

He was right:

HERE LIE JAMES AND LILY POTTER

DEVOTED PARENTS

MAY THEIR SOULS FOREVER REST IN PEACE

1975 – October 31st, 1997

He didn't know how long he kneeled there, gazing at his parents' names. When his knees began to hurt for sitting so long, he got up and walked quietly back to the house.

Hermione and Ron were already standing outside, laden with baggage. "Harry!" Hermione cried, attempting to throw her arms around his neck while holding a huge duffel bag roughly the size of a table.

"Ouch." Harry fixed his glasses.

"'Lo, mate," Ron said, hefting his bag up. "Next time leave us waiting a bit longer, eh?"

Harry grinned ruefully. "Sorry," he intoned, fishing his keys out of his pocket. "I was visiting my parents' graves."

"Well," he said bracingly, swinging the door open. "This is it. No place like home."

"Its so…empty…" Hermione said, eyes wide.

"Well, love, he did say to bring camp beds." Ron dumped his stuff in the doorway. "Hermione, we are never ever bringing so much stuff again.

"Well, we're almost going to live here, aren't we, Ron?" Hermione said huffily, also putting down her bags and massaging her arms. "But we did bring a _bit _too much, maybe."

"Just maybe," Ron muttered mutinously. Harry grinned again. His two best friends were here with him, in Godric's Hollow, and that's all he needed right now.


	3. Birdy

He had planned on looking for the Horcruxes, etc. etc. etc. this summer, but three weeks had passed and he was still at home, playing that it was just summer vactation. Harry told himself repeatedly that it was just a short break; he'd be back on the hero job in no time.

Then again, his snide, inner voice would reply. You know Voldemort doesn't take summer breaks.

It was July. One week till his birthday. Maybe he'd look for the Horcruxes after he was seventeen. Or seventeen and a week, maybe.

Pouring himself tea, Harry stared out the window, not really seeing his front lawn that Hermione attempted to keep in something of an order. He had spotted Jack several times, on each occasion the boy was working. Mowing lawns, carrying groceries, watering and trimming plants. Maybe he'd have Jack come down here and garden.

A loud thump outside caused Harry to jerk out of his musings. He glanced over his shoulder instinctively, then pushed the lace curtain aside and peered out the window.

The sight that greeted him was considerably less than welcome. It appeared to be some sort of horribly mutated bird, black, with gashes of bright red latticing across half its side. Its wings were spread out at an odd angle – come to that they were odd wings…

Nausea hit him in the stomach when he realised that it was not a bird, but two humans, one bleeding severely, the other desperately holding on. What had caused the thump, though? Had they fallen from the aspen Harry kept on his lawn? Why were they both dressed all in black?

His heart turned over when he saw the unhurt one draw a wand.


	4. Sheets

Drawing his wand, Harry ran down the stairs, and exited the house somewhat noisily. "Harry?" Hermione called sleepily from her room. Hesitating for a second, Harry bounced on the balls of his feet, caught in indecision.

"Um, I'll - I'll - I'll be right back!" he called over his shoulder. Wand out and in front of him, Harry slowly approached the black robed wizards. "What's your name?" he asked, a good two meters away, in case they tried anything funny.

"Don't you know?" a cool voice asked, a hand emerging from a black robe to pull back the hood of the robe. It revealed pale blond hair and pale features Harry knew only too well.

"Malfoy?" he gasped, his grip on his wand wavering. What the hell was Malfoy doing here? At this time? Wasn't he supposed to be lounging around in his manor or whatever it was that Malfoys did during the summer?

Maybe they visit their archenemies, the back of Harry's mind giggled. Harry told it firmly to shut up.

"Potter?"

"Yes, Malfoy?" the words felt odd on his tongue. "Yes" and "Malfoy" together. Hm.

"I think I - will you - I need to get somewhere safe." For the first time in six years of knowing each other, Harry heard doubt in Malfoy's voice. It was this, and the memory of his terrified expression on that fateful summer night, that made Harry sigh and stoop to the other robed figure.

"Do want to put him in the house?" he asked, shoving his wand in his back pocket (Moody would disapprove.) Malfoy nodded fervently. "Here," grunted Harry, attempting to lift the unconscious figure. "_Dammit_, Malfoy, help me!" he yelled in frustration at the other boy, who was simply standing there, grey eyes wide.

Malfoy looked at him with steely eyes. "How?' he asked, frowning. "There's not much I can do, is there?"

"Here - hold under the arms - like that, yeah, and I'll carry the legs and open the door." Harry and Malfoy moved to their appropriate positions, and began moving, silently. There was not much to be said.

"Hermione!" Harry shouted when they entered the house. "Can you get a sheet, please?"

Hermione, who had just been coming down the steps, stared at the scene before her.

"The sheet, Granger," said Malfoy tartly.

Harry turned on him. "Look, here, I'm doing you a favour, so you just shut - "

"Who asked you to help me?" retorted Malfoy.

"You did," Harry countered triumphantly. That shut the git up for a bit.

Hermione practically broke her neck trying to get down the steps in time. She laid the sheet out, as directed on the couch. Harry and Malfoy eased the body onto the clean sheet, and finally stood up, both spines cracking.

"Malfoy, can I ask one thing?" Harry said, pushing the damp hair out of his eyes.

"I suppose you are entitled to one more question," Malfoy said. Harry was under the impression that he was laughing inside.

"Who is this?" Harry gestured vaguely in the direction of the couch.

All traces of mirth fell from Malfoy's face, and some colour went with it.

"Who is it?" Harry persisted.


	5. Breakfast

"…Well," Malfoy said slowly. "Why don't you check, Potter?"

Harry frowned at him. He probably would never get a straight _answer_ out of Malfoy. With a sigh, he pulled back the hood off the unconscious person.

The face was barely recognizable underneath all the blood, but there was no mistaking it. Malfoy flinched as Harry turned to him. "He told me to," Malfoy said quickly.

"Really?" Harry asked menacingly. "And why would he do that, after…all that's happened?"

"I don't know," Malfoy said.

"Helpful," Hermione snapped suddenly. Both boys jumped; she had been silent for the past five minutes. "Spit it out, Malfoy," she said, advancing on him. He looked away, clearly searching for words, when there was a loud thundering of feet on the stairs.

"Good morning," Ron said with a yawn. "What's for – Bloody Hell!" he stared, dumbstruck, at the scene before him. Hermione and Harry standing in front of _Malfoy,_ who was sitting on _their_ couch, and some strange, dirty thing _lying_ on the couch.

"Good Lord," Malfoy drawled. "It's the Weasel."

"Shut it, Malfoy," Harry said in a bored tone, while Ron's ears struggled not to resemble tomatoes. "We've been through this before. It's getting old already."

"Come on, Malfoy." Hermione tapped her foot impatiently, hands on hips. "I _know_ you know."

"What the hell is _he _doing here?" Ron managed finally.

"Bit slow on the uptake, aren't you, Weasel – king?" Malfoy remarked snidely.

"Ignore him, Ron," Hermione said sharply.

"Malfoy," Harry said dangerously. "What do you know?"

Silence.

"I…" He hugged himself, and looked out the window. The light fell on him deceivingly, he appeared as a forlorn angel. "I…"

Hermione knelt down. "Are you hungry?" she asked kindly. He looked at her as though she were mentally disturbed.

"No, I'm fine," he said finally.

"No, you're not. Come with me." She took his hand and led him toward the kitchen.

Harry and Ron looked at each other. "Barmy," said Ron, shaking his head. "I'm going to have breakfast." And he exited the room. But Harry lingered, glowering at the reposed figure on the couch.


	6. Porcelain Masks

"Look," Hermione whispered. "Just leave him alone for a little bit. Treat him normally."

"Treat Malfoy normally?" Ron said loudly.

"Shut up!" hissed Hermione. "Honestly, Ron. You have the tact of a wombat."

"Wombats have tact?" Ron scratched his head.

"No," continued Hermione briskly. "My point exactly."

"What's the plan, Hermione?" Harry asked slowly. She had to be cooking something up – she was just letting the situation stew for some time.

"Make him trust us. Make him defect. Then he'll tell us all he knows," Hermione said, brushing her hair out of her face.

"It's not that simple," Harry began.

"Yeah, it's _Malfoy_ we're talking about!" Ron cut in. "I mean, come on. Trust us? Make him trust us? You've got to be joking!"

"No wonder he's on the other side, with people like you!" Hermione snapped viscously. "Everyone just _assumes_ he's evil, but he could convert."

"You're making it sound like some sort of religion," Ron snorted.

"Well being a Death Eater is a bit of a cult," Hermione said reasonably.

"I agree," Harry said quickly. "I mean, not with the cult bit, with the whole making him trust us thing. If he defects, imagine how much information we could get from him!" He wasn't just thinking of that, though. A certain fair – haired teenagers face on a warm summer's eve was also telling him that Malfoy could change. "I want to help him," Harry added quietly. "Look at him." They did. Malfoy was sitting at the table, looking out the window again. His expression was lost, pained and analytical, like some sort of prey planning a futile escape.

Ron shrugged. "Okay, but it's your funeral," he said. They re – entered the room.

"Decided my verdict yet?" Malfoy's head whirled around, and his eyes met Harry's.

"Yes," Hermione said. "We're going to cut off your limbs and nose and leave you outside until you go into sepsis and catch pneumonia."

Malfoy's expression was slightly horrified until he realised she was joking, then he scowled. "Very funny, Granger," he snarled.

"And you've _got _to stop calling me that," she continued lightly. "_Draco_." She added for emphasis. The boy choked on his own spit.

"What?" he coughed.

"I'm Hermione to you. This is Ron, and…Harry." She gestured respectively to each.

"I know what their first names are," Malfoy growled.

"Then why don't you use them?" Hermione asked cheerily, opening the curtains. "Right. Harry, please show Draco the room where he can sleep. I'm going to go take a shower."

"We needed to know, Granger," Malfoy sneered at Hermione's retreating figure.

"Shut up!" Ron yelled.

"Make me," Malfoy retorted.

"All right," Harry said loudly. "Break it up. Malf – er, I mean. Draco. Please follow me." To his surprise, Malfoy got up and followed him. Harry led him to the first floor bedroom, where no one had slept. They needed to get him a bed or something.

"For now, I guess you can sleep in a sleeping bag," Harry said, opening the door to the room.

"I won't be staying here long, _Potter_." Malfoy brushed past him.

"I think you will, _Draco_," Harry countered. He walked in after Malfoy. "Here's the bathroom…you can take a shower if you like. I'll get you a towel. And soap. And a flannel, if you'd like one."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Please stop babying me, Potter. It's demeaning."

"Do you want soap?" Harry said, oblivious to the last comment. Malfoy also ignored him. Harry spun around and grabbed Malfoy's shoulders, fed up. "Malfoy. Draco. I'm not talking to who I thought I knew, OK?"

Malfoy looked puzzled, frowning and pulling away from Harry's touch.

Harry rushed on. "I want to talk to the boy that one summer's night, that boy who needed to murder but couldn't, the boy who needed his family, even though he felt like they didn't need him, that boy who couldn't point his wand at his victim. That who I want, OK? I don't need any of the pieces of your arrogant mask! That's all gone now, Draco!" The first name came more easily now. "I want to give you…a second chance," he finished, realising he sounded really corny.

Malfoy looked at him indifferently, but only after soothing his face, which had been racked with emotion, into a porcelain veil. "Did the Mudblood put you up to this?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"Don't call her that!" Harry shouted, turned on his heel, and slammed the door. He had a last glimpse of Malfoy smirking, which only served to infuriate him more.

Of all the nerve! Draco Malfoy was the must frustrating, annoying, hateful brat he knew. And having known Dudley Dursley, that was saying a lot.


End file.
